


The Little Bumblebee

by itsallratherstrange



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anaphylaxis, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Post-Credits Scene, BAMF Tony Stark, Bad Decisions, Bad Puns, Cards Against Humanity, Crying, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hide and Seek, Humour, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Israeli character(s), Mother-Daughter Relationship, Not Beta Read, Orphans, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Starbucks, Teenagers, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vines, dark humour, epi pen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-27 06:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16213673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallratherstrange/pseuds/itsallratherstrange
Summary: Tony was left numb after the events of Infinity war, until a small insect fell into his life and unknowingly started to make his days more bearable. He is left conflicted to whether he let her in to his life because he actually likes her, or because she reminds him so desperately of the person he misses the most.





	1. Whiskey and Golden Ringlets

Tony Stark had had a long day.

It didn’t seem to him like a year. Hell, it didn’t even seem like a week since it happened, yet the days dragged on, endless and full of hours designed specifically to torture those who didn’t want to think.

Days became filled with meaningless chatter with meaningless people over meaningless subjects. He would count the minutes until the hour ended, and the hours until the sunset. Time soon became irrelevant, because when you can’t sleep, all hours become hours of work. To start wit, he tried to maintain a ‘healthy’ sleep pattern. Waking up, exercising, eating, working, curling up and hiding between the sheets of his far-too-expensive bed. But, as time nauseatingly crawled along, suddenly it didn’t seem to matter to him anymore. Nightmares and memories, the line between the two so goddamn blurred it hardly even existed, keeping his brain on edge and sleep far away. Tony’s sleep cycle was like that of a man held captive, unaware of the time of day. He would work all night, fighting to keep his eyes open and the bitter taste of self-imposed guilt far away. He’d work until he couldn’t fight the urge no longer. He’d sleep only when neccasary and dosed up on Stark Industries new and exclusive sleep meds that blocks memories and dreams from appearing during sleep.

Life had become hellish for many after the snap, but no so much as Iron Man. It became like ‘the game’. You know, the one where you try not to think about the game for as long as possible and you lose when you remember? And you do remember you have to tell everyone, so they lose as well? Life was like that, except for ‘the game’ being the final fight on Titan, and he lost every couple of hours. 6 hours was the longest he’d gone without dredging the memories from his brain. 6 hours was the longest he’d allowed himself to forget what he blamed himself for.

A year. 365 days. 8760 hours. 8760 hours since the whole planet came to a grinding holt. Mothers, fathers, friends, lovers, all lost in an instant. Children orphaned, people left without a lover. Children gone far far before there time. Those who never got to see what them, their friends, the siblings, their children would go on to do. The world lost a kid who maybe would figure out a method of curing cancer. The world lost a fucking angry non-binary teenager who wanted to change the shape of society. They lost the person who would smile and make someone’s day.

All dead because of him.

You would assume that no man could carry the guilt of half the universe on his shoulders. But when his shoulders are made of titanium alloy, it becomes easier for the world to think that he can, and he should.

Honestly, he knew he couldn’t hold it all, and he knew that eventually it would become too much for him to hold. The weight of 3.5 billion lives isn’t something anyone could hold, least of all an emotionally volatile man. It would crush him, in fact it was pushing down on him now, but sooner or later it would fall onto him like a building trembling from the tremors of an earthquake. And everyone knew when it fell it would kill him when the seemingly perfectly balanced stack of innocent peoples lives fell onto him. Because no one could survive that.

Tony Stark had had a long day.

The day had been full of memorials, each one more depressing than the last. Every countries president, monarch or leader had spoken to him. All eyes were on the only surviving members of the battle as they spoke, as they openly grieved for those they’d also lost, as every news reporter and press member flashed cameras and threw angry questions specifically designed to open the red-raw wounds of guilt littered across everyone. As everyone sat quietly and watch the thick blanket of silent blame fall over them.

Tony nursed a ridiculously expensive bottle of single malt whiskey. He didn’t see the point of bothering with a glass. To be completely honest, he didn’t see the point in very much recently, having appeared to have entered a state ultimate nihilism. Taking a swig, and basking in the short lived but greatly enjoyed burn of the drink, he placed the lid back on the bottle before-

“Sir,” The voice of Friday rang out the office. “One of the lower level members of staff has requested to enter onto this level. Shall I allow them access?”

Tony readjusted himself on his chair,

“Who is it? I can’t really be bothered to entertain any hyper nerd today.” Tony’s reply was filled with a heavy groan and a strained tone.

“Boss, it’s an intern called Liora Adelman. She has been sent by Dr Banner.”

Tony agreed for the intern to be sent up, puzzled to when they had hired a new intern. He had strictly said not to hire any new staff without his permission. And with a position like the ‘intern’ that brought back so many painful thoughts, he would have thought that they would have at least told him. Yes, he could see the benefits to hiring an intern. Stark Industries needed to keep up the façade that they were trying to do right by world, that they were caring. When everyday there were people angrily marching against Tony Stark and recently reformed avengers, they needed the public to see, to believe that they weren’t the bad guys, that they wanted good to come. However, he had said no, and you would think they’d at least tell him, maybe even ask his opinion.

A sharp knock on his door brought his brain back to reality. His door was already open, so the knock was simply a sound to alert him of the intern’s presence. In the doorway stood a small, tanned teenage female. Shoulder length, chestnut brown curls fell around her face, and heavily lashed hazel eyes that perfectly matched her olive complexion took their place upon her face. The figure was small but incredibly muscular. She stood in the doorway, clutching a large stack of files with the Stark Industries logo embellished across the top.

“Mr Stark, sir, Dr Banner has asked me to deliver these files to you. He asks if you could possible look over them before Friday.” Liora’s voice held a slight accent that he couldn’t quite place. Tony sighed when she spoke, before pushing himself up, out of his slouching position, and placing a hand underneath his chin.

“Dr Banner? Really? How does a little intern like you know Bruce?” Tony spoke with plain arrogance, speaking possessively of the doctor. Sure, he was intrigued by the girl, but a bottle of whiskey and emotional numbness turned off his ability to simply be nice to others.

“I’m Dr Banners intern. I work underneath him, helping him with his work. Would you please take these reports and files?” She walked over to his desk where she handed him the files.

“You must be good, really. Hell, you only look about 10.” Snarky.

“16 actually. I graduated from Oxford early and came over here to study Biological Engineering. Dr Banner heard about my work and asked me to help him out.”

“Funny, I was never told about this.”

“I think they bypassed you, seeing as you put Dr Banner in charge of the research department. If Walmart was hiring at a store in the middle of Alabama they probably would not tell the CEO.” Tony never liked to be made aware of any decisions he made in an alcohol fuelled haze, especially ones that had to be made due to the deaths of those who once filled the positions.

“You actually have a point. You’re Israeli?” His tone had now softened, now starkly aware of the atmosphere in the room and the fragile nature of his emotions. He wasn’t ready for tears, lest of all in front of a 16-year-old who was far too sassy for her own good.

“Yes, I was born in Israel but when my dad pissed off the government, my sister took me to England. We lived in a studio flat with mould on the walls for years, but my school saw I was “gifted” so I skipped most of the first years of high school. I was bumped up and did my GCSE’s at 12, a level at 13 and a half. Oxford and Cambridge fought over me and my sister, she was incredible at maths, and we both went to oxford.” She finished, her cheeks flushed and slightly embarrassed. She hadn’t meant to babble.

“I take it English isn’t your first language? Its only that you have a thick accent, slightly Briticised too.”

“Yes, my first language was Hebrew, but I can speak Russian and Arabic too.”

“Why did you come here?” Tony asked, now fully intrigued by the small Israeli stood in front of him. His eyes tried to take in as much information he possibly could of the teenager in front of him. Her ringlets gradually grew lighter around her jaw from what one would assume was hydrogen peroxide. You could see her incredibly muscular arms through her merlot turtle neck, and her calf muscles through her tight clad legs. Her red nails tapped gently on the stack of files, and her eyes were constantly flickering across the room, drowning in new things to explore.

“I spoke to Dr Banner at a conference at Oxford when I was much younger, I think I must have only been 12, it was before Sokovia.” Liora paused for a moment, reflecting on her memory. “I had been invited because I won an award from the exam board. I met Dr Banner and I fell in love with the idea of working in New York, working for a high-flying tech company. Then, around 11 months ago I wrote a paper on a theory Dr Banner was working on, and he remembered me. He asked me to come up and work here. I had no family left so I moved up here and took the internship while studying at the university in the city.” Tony sighed after she spoke, leaning back into his chair.

“What is it Dr Banner is working on?” Tony wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He figured he already knew, it could only really be one thing. Its all anyone had been working on.

“This brings me back to these.” She tapped the files. “Dr Banner wants you to attend the meeting tomorrow, if you can make it.” She smiled slightly, before turning around towards the door.

“What’s your name again, Friday told me, but it’s g now.”

“Liora Adelman.”

“Well, young-one, tell Dr Banner I might be there tomorrow. I might not be but hey, what’s life without being spontaneous?”

“Goodbye, Sir.”

Tony watched as the door closed behind her, and he closed his eyes. For months, he had only talked to a few people. He only did what was necessary, only working on the normal stuff, and not trying with anyone or anything. He hadn’t been to a meeting in months, and he hadn’t spoken to any normal people in months. No newspapers or press had snapped a picture of him in months. But, for the first time in months, he didn’t feel drained. It wasn’t a long convocation, he hardly knew her, hell, he’d probably never see her again. All those things were probably factors in why he felt normal, to why he felt fine.

Liora reminded him so bloody much of what he wanted from life when he was a teenager. She reminded him of himself, but, you know, in a less rich and arrogant way. A child who lost her parents, a child who had an incredibly IQ and wanted to do good in the world. A child with sass and a child who wanted to be everything.

She reminded him of a bumblebee. She’d lost her parents, and then her sister, but nothing about her screamed “pity me”. Tony hadn’t ever seen a teenager who buzzed with life as much as the sassy godam Israeli intern. He had to stop growing attached to nerdy and sad children.

Tony felt himself slump backwards in his chair, his eyes heavy with the kilos of sleep deprivation of the past months. Shoes kicked off, the billionaire felt himself slip into the warm pool of the first stages of sleep.

It had been a long day for Tony Stark.


	2. The Art of Getting Dressed and Working With A Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, nice to see y'all still here!

Light streamed through the mismatched and patched up curtains, illuminating the over cramped flat. Dust floated through the air like little fairies, the sun beams hitting the room in the same pattern as the badly patched hole in the curtain. The room, now bathed in early morning sunlight, came to life. Clothes, makeup, cans of coke lay scattered haphazardly across the floor. Piles of clean washing formed trip hazards and the bags of shopping from last nights late-night run still leant against the small set of kitchen cabinets. A set of multi-coloured weights and a luminous green yoga mat were pushed into the corner of the room. 

Across the room, sat a stack of mattress, filled to the brim with duvets, pillows and throws. Basked in sunlight, it looked very aesthetic, with pictures on one side of the mattresses’, and posters and fairy lights on the other. It almost made you forget how much of a shit-tip the rest of the room really was. Underneath the pile of blankets lay a softly sleeping figure, cocooned in the masses of fluff and sheets. Hair, matted and slightly greasy, lay spread out across the baby-pink pillow, limbs gracelessly scattered across the bed. The figure lay still, as if she was deliberately trying not to move, eyes fluttering, fingers moving slightly. Her lips lay slightly parted, dry from breathing out of them all night. 

The room, first appearing silent, sang with noise. The hum of the pipes, the creaking of the old building and its other tenants. Soft breathing filled the room, the paradox of the noise evident within the small space of the studio flat very evident. 

The figure, once softly sleeping in its cocoon, had awoken and had sat up in her bed, before realising that she was too tired for that, and promptly fell back down again. A loud grown, originating from under the death pit of blankets, filled the room. Liora, whose muscles could now bear slightly more weight than before, rolled on to her side, leant down and retrieved her phone from the jumble sale of a floor. The artificial light radiated across Liora’s face before she started typing away.   
After approximately 10 minutes of umming and ahhing whether to brave the cold air, she shifted her arse out of the bed, and promptly ran into the tiny bathroom.   
The once white tiles of the adjoining bathroom shone with age, now a grey colour, well used and not well looked after. The bathroom was clean, just not sparklingly with a showroom like glow, much like the rest of the flat. The shower head was old, with an ominous looking grime around the edges, and the shower curtain now showed signs of age as the ducks that once swan gleefully around the edges had began to peel away. Liora didn’t care; it was all she had. 

The water ran icy cold, eliciting a shocked gasp from the 16-year-old stood underneath the water. She had lived there for 10 months and a week and yet it still manged to catch her unaware every day. Once the water heated to a level which she found acceptable, she began to wash, creating a cloud of bubbles in her hair. She took time to remove the dirt from last nights rugby training, and she carefully glided over the bruise, varying in age, all caused either by rugby, dropping weights on her self or a variety of falls and collisions. Scrubbing hard at her legs, keen to remove the deep-set grass stains and blood from her well-toned (read buff as hell) legs. Hot water scorched her skin, creating a haven for the freezing cold Israeli girl.   
After 10 minutes of warm water bliss, she exited the shower, into the sub-artic temperatures of the bathroom. She shivered as she frantically searched for towels, eventually locating two faded yellow towels, both decorated with age-old cartoon characters. Pulling the one she believed to be slightly longer and less holey over her body and using the other to wrap her soaking wet hair, she hopped out of the dingy bathroom and into the main room. 

Liora left a trail of water along the carpet as the walked over to her piles of clean clothes. She had meant to buy a wardrobe but had never gotten around to it, and for the time being had resolved to using well placed piles and wicker baskets instead. The room she rented was all she could afford, with an unpaid internship and working part time at a Hipster Coffee shop, she didn’t have very much money. Normally, a random teenager, left orphaned wouldn’t be able to live and work on her own, let alone in a foreign country. But after The Snap, the world fell into chaos, and she fell through the cracks. At 16, she could work, and her landlord only wanted money, he didn’t give a fuck how old she was. She has a Stark Industries ID card which was always sufficient ID for anyone; no one called her out, Tony Stark was renowned for defending all staff to the death. 

She grabbed a high-collared, black cotton t-shirt and a plaid cami dress, before attempting to wrestle on her tights. Grumbling as she knocked off her towel hat, she grabbed a bottle of argon oil. Deciding on French Plaits, she sat in her tights and bra on her bed and began plaiting her hair, yelping in pain occasionally as she ran her fingers into a nasty kink.   
Liora left Israel with her sister when she was 10. Her mother was dead, and her father wanted for acts of terrorism. He was the evillest man on earth, her sister told her. Liora knew her killed people, she knew he blew up buildings, and she fucking hated him too. She and Talli ran away, leaving for England. They wanted a better life, away from the life of being under constant surveillance, from their dad being constantly arrested. London became their new home, using their mother’s maiden name, they lost their past.   
Liora didn’t draw on her life before England, because when she did she knew it would haunt her brain for months. It didn’t matter to her, not now she had new life where she didn’t have to worry. Sure, she never had a proper childhood, or a mother, or money, but to her it didn’t matter. She had what she wanted when she went to England, and that’s all that mattered to her. She choses not to think about it, to cope with the fact she can’t deal with the guilt. Her father murdered innocent people and she blames herself for not saying anything, not mentioning the bombs and the guns, for not stopping him.

Liora wriggled into her top and cami dress before yanking open the old curtains.  
"אני באמת חייב להשיג חדשים, לא?"  
Liora frantically ran around the flat, trying to find the items she needed to pack for work. She could see the torrential downpour that made her nostalgic for London, and she knew that she needed about a million and one reports, papers, books and files for the meeting later. Lever arch files lay scattered across the floor, each one looking the same, meaning she would have to pick everyone up to check the label on top.

Throwing the files, she needed into her messenger bag, she opened the singular cupboard to try and find something to eat. After grabbing a breakfast drink and a banana, she hastily grabbed her boots and exited the flat.

The bus only took 24 and half minutes to get to the nearest stop from the compound. She was annoyed at the fact she wasn’t old enough to drive, and very resentful of the awful weather that morning. Rain lashed down like bullets, burning against her skin. It soaked through her coat within minutes. She moved quickly in the rain, making a beeline for the Compound, which was visible now. 

Shaking off her yellow and black striped umbrella (she had a matching coat as well) she entered the building and promptly scanned her pass. Waving hello to the security guard, Duncan, she headed to the lift where she once again had to scan her pass.   
The Avengers Facility was huge, with walls that towered above you like playground bullies, seemingly leaning over you and taunting you. Modern tech filled the walls, professionals moved around the place, so comfortable in the knowledge that they belonged there. Every item screamed money and power, subtle and not at the same time. It was the kind of place that you see in films, so unrealistic to the normal human being. Glass and silver and oak, all complimenting each other. It looked like a hotel, an airport, a palace. Money and entitlement radiated off the building. 

Today, everything was still sombre. The walls covered in flowers and poems, the many screens showing the faces of the lost. No one spoke loudly. No sound rang in the air, no gentle music played in the background, only to be heard when you really listened.   
“Good morning Liora!” The pleasant voice of Dr Bruce Banner welcomed her into the lab. Scanning her pass, she entered the lab, smiling at the Doctor.  
“Good morning Doctor Banner. How are you today?” She replied to the doctor, her voice warm with sunny pleasantries. She slipped off her ringing wet jacket and put her lab coat own, pinning her badge to it.

“Tired, but that’s the norm now. I’ve gotta say, Liora, you look like you swam your way here.”

“I think I would be drier if I did!” she giggled, her accent very prominent in the moment of humour.

“Yeah, the rain is unstoppable today. I’ve not seen it like this for a while”

The sound of the rain hitting the glass roof filled the lab, the sound making the lab seem colder than the steel and white already did. The lab smelt clean, toxically clean, and that smell always made her feel safe. Labs had always been a safe place for Liora, throughout her life. Even in Israel, her school lab became a small haven for her, somewhere she could be herself and didn’t have to hide. Her science teacher loved her from the day she started. He always let her use the labs at lunch and when she really didn’t want to back home. She never told him about her home life, and the man never pushed, but she believed he knew about the problems (at least some of them) and would let her stay. In England, in a country she’d never been to before she had to relocate there, the chloriny stench that burned your nostrils was something she recognised, and she knew that they spoke her language there. 

The lab was always noisy, but not in a distracting way. The clanging of metal and the movement of people were constantly there. Chemicals fizzing away merrily in their containers; pens scratching into paper and forever leaving their mark on the world; the bustles of scientist in their elements. Liora was the only other person who worked in Dr Banners lab. Normally, she’d work in the normal labs, under strict instruction on what to do. But, in the last few weeks, due to the nature of the work they were doing, Liora had begun to work in his lab. She’d assist and offer theories while Dr Banner worked away at the Gideons Knot they’d worked themselves into.

They sat down, Liora with her laptop and Bruce with his brain. 

“So, I know we’ve been here before, sir, but what do you know about them? What is known about them? What is not known about them?” Liora began questioning Bruce, carefully phrasing her sentences. 

“Well, as you, as everyone really knows, they are 6 Cosmic Entities, created before the creation of the universe. Each one holds the control over an essential aspect of the universe. Each one possesses unique capabilities, each one altered differently by alien societies over the millenniums.” Dr Banner paused for a moment. Liora knew that the memories haunted him, still open and bloody wounds of those lost. 

“And, sir, if I am correct, they can also only be held by beings of immense power unless they are in a container of sorts?” Dr Banner looked up towards the girl and nodded.

“Yes, Yes. When Dr Jane Foster encountered the Aether, she became ill. The Guardians and Thor have also told me their experiences with the contact with the stone.” The two-scientist looked at each other, an unspoked word uttered in the air. They knew look this was hard when they started but it was maze so full of thick brambles that you couldn’t see a metre in front of your face. They simply stumbled their way through, trying to grab onto any hint of the way out they find, only to look down at the torn skin and blood seeping into their hands.

“Ok, so from what we know, the soul stone holds a pocket dimension? One where those sacrificed to the stone reside?” Liora looked up at the doctor. Bruce took off his glasses and furiously rubbed his eyes before sighing. The weight of the events of the last year were clearly written across his face, readable in the form of deep set wrinkles and patches of greying hair. Liora knew, hell everyone knew, he struggled to control the fury and utter despair that had permanently settled in the esteemed scientists stomach. Hulk hadn’t appeared for the course of the last year, but a deep-rooted guilt and depression had taken his place. He was always angry and always sad, so hell-bent on turning everything back to what it was.

“Yes. Yes. Yes! But what good is that going to do?” A deep, humourless chuckle erupted from his throat. “Liora, we know nothing. We don’t know anything about what those hellish stones can do, and even if we had any clue at all, we couldn’t do shit! That purple grape has them!”

“But we can’t just not do anything sir! You’ve said it yourself, we owe it to them!” 

“We don’t owe them shit! Their dead, we’re not. Its simple.” A red flush had swept over them both, anger and embarrassment mixed into to one. 

“Liora, we can’t change the past.”

“I know that.” The atmosphere had mellowed, softened. Bruce sighed and got up and walked over to his desk. He placed his hands on the desk and bowed his head down. Liora felt her eyes prickle and the dull throb in the back of her throat. She struggled to feel emotions of her own, but she drowned in the feelings of others. She could feel the self-hatred radiating of the man stood only a couple of feet away from her.   
“Doctor Banner, would you like me to go and fetch some coffee before the meeting?” Her voice dripped with honey, soft and caring, emphasizing her accent.

“That would be lovely Liora. I’ll meet you in the main meeting room in half an hour.”

“Thank you, sir.” Liora grabbed her bag and coat from the lab, and she went she turned to exit the room.

“Liora?” Dr Banner asked. She turned back around, her curls flickering in to her face, her jacket half on. 

“You must not tell them anything about what we are working on, not even Stark. Especially not Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Cliff hanger! I would have honestly written a longer chapter but I have a history test and a german speaking test (neither of which I have revised for, and the latter being an absolute hellish situation seeing as I'm Deaf!)  
> I really hoped you liked this chapter and please point out any mistakes to my dumbass!  
> My Tumblr is okbutinrealitywhy  
> Cheers!


	3. I am Kind Of Allergic to the Bees

The shining white doors of Meeting Room Three were swung open. Eerily spacious, with glass walls towering above you and blinding white floors, it swallowed anyone who stood within. It was also deafeningly silent always, absorbing every lost breath and muttered word. The golden goose of the avengers building, it was the room used for press and people of importance. It held a legendary status within the “lower” class of workers within Stark Industries. Meeting Room Three was where you either went to be fired or promoted; once you’d entered Meeting Room Three, you came out a different person.   
Liora Adelman was beyond confused.  
In fact, she was well past confused and frankly had settled on pure and utter bewilderment. She was simply rolling with the situation. She returned from the coffee shop, green tea in one hand and a caramel latte in the other, to find a flustered Dr Banner. He hurried her into a wing of the building she had yet to enter. The sound of her boots against the floor was all she could hear as they silently walked.  
“There was a change of plans, apparently.” Dr Banner broke the tension, his tone a well-mixed combination of confusion and anxiety. His marble brown eyes darted between her hazel hued eyes and the clinically blank walls that filled the seemingly endless maze of corridors and turns. Without the short moments of speech, the noise of Liora’s boots clattering against the cool tiles and Dr Banners soft batter of feet was all to be heard in the vast expanse of the emotionless corridors.  
It had been two weeks since she had first met the infamous Tony Stark in all his depressed and alcohol scorched beauty, and she’d yet to see him since. Two weeks wasn’t a very long time in retrospect, and it passed at a perfectly normal rate. But, when the world struggled to turn, every second dragged at twice the rate it used to, with new problems hauled at people every day.   
“I don’t think I’ve been to this part of the compound before.” Liora stated, breathing out in a light huff. She had redyed her hair the night before, back to its chocolatey brown, free of the peroxide prison. Now it swung loosely around her shoulders, half tied back in a bun, the other half hanging freely. With burgundy red lips to match her nails and a cream high-necked sweater and wide leg pants, she wore her tatty but beloved boots. Her moss coloured eyes spoke no lies, but simply held too many secrets, too many truths hidden from those around her, painted with dark mascara to hide the torture of locking things away.  
“I can imagine why. We don’t use these meeting rooms ever. I cannot fathom why Pepper has decided to use them.”  
“Pepper? As in Pepper Potts?” Her tone sang with curiosity, awe.   
“Yeah. She’s in charge of all staff meetings but she doesn’t normally attend them. At the moment I think she’s mainly focussing on keeping Stark Industries name being dragged through the mood by the press and keeping our beloved Iron Man from causing himself liver damage.”  
The doors to Meeting Room 3 swung open as the pair approached the doors.  
And boy, did the sight that the pair found in front of them shock them both.   
The glass tables and chairs were full, filled by figures speaking in muted voiced. They all sat facing each other, each person having individual conversations. The heads once turned away from the doors, all span around in a mass movement that in any other circumstances would have been simply comical. There, sat metres away from a shocked Israeli teenager, the avengers had turned to look at the doctor and his little intern.   
“Banner!” Dr Banner’s face spilt in to an incredibly wide smile that filled the tired doctors face, ironing out the lines that Liora was accustomed to. The source of the voice seemingly ran over to the doctor and scooped him up as if he was paper. A completely over-excited Asgardian had thundered over, nearly knocking over the small girl stood next to him, petrified of the people stood in front of her.   
“Thor! My god! Please be careful and put me down!” The doctor, despite his words, spoke with joy oozing out of his every word, his tone coated in sugar dipped happiness at the sight of his friends.  
“I’m sorry, Banner, but I could not simply hold in my joy!”  
“I could see that! You nearly knocked poor Miss Adelman over in the process.” Liora’s anxiety levels had shot through the roof, heavily intimidated by the room full of superheroes. And in the process, she had done the age-old act of trying to hide behind the legs of the nearest adult. But, alas, she was now much older, and despite being terrifyingly small, she could no longer find recluse.  
“I am so incredibly sorry! Who is this small child?”  
“That, Point Break, is the little bumblebee.” The voice, coated in fake self-assuredness, filled the room, addressing the room as a whole. It had an ability, the voice, to draw in all those around it, making sure all voices were focused on it, relying purely on attention from others to work.  
“Who? This small thing? She can’t be any form of superhero, she- “  
“Is no superhero, and has no super powers, as far as I’m aware,” The voice paused for a second to gesture towards the mortified young girl. “She simply radiates life around this depressing and godforsaken place. She has a yellow and black stripped coat,” he added, trying to resolve some of the confused glances.  
“Mr Stark, sir, I, I, I am nothing like a bumblebee, and I am rather grumpy you see.” Liora’s face had flushed a radish red, with heat radiating out of the girl.  
“Yes, my dear, but you simply make people happy.”  
“I bring people coffee, sir.”  
“Don’t kid yourself, kid,” Tony paused to reflect upon his own joke “You do much more than that!”  
“You’ve only met me once before!” She seemed to be burning up right on the spot, setting alight to herself, watching as the heat from the flames of CEO induced shame flickered around her face and those who stood closest to her. “I’m severely allergic to bees!”  
“Oh.”  
The grand old Tony Stark retreated inhumanly fast, taking himself into a self-induced shell. Liora held out her wrist which held her Medical ID bracelet. The orange silicone bore the engravings, stating that she, Liora Adelman, was severely allergic to bee stings, and in the case of her being stung, would need to be injected with her EpiPen before her heart began to fail.  
“Tony, I was not expecting to see you here.” Bruce quickly changed the subject, aware of the beetroot coloured teenager stood next to him and the eyes of the rooms occupants glued, non-subtly, to the teenager and Tony.   
“Well, I had absolutely no intention of attending but then I realised that my bottle of overpriced scotch was empty, and I needed something to distract me the numb void I call my heart.” Stark emphasized every syllable, speaking in an almost sing-song fashion, lacey each word with the poisonous tones of self-hatred and deep-rooted alcoholism.  
“As lovely as this all is, why am I here?” Liora’s accent cut thick and strong into her speech. She had never been somebody to voice her opinions quietly, and, despite the fact she spoke flawless English, her occasional inability to correctly phrase things meant that her speech came out clear cut and to the point. And this was one of the perfect examples.  
“You, my dear bumblebee, are needed.” Stark addressed her simply before turning back to the room at large.  
“We need to do something.”  
The short, concise question from the billionaire created an airless void within the room. Faces, full of muddled emotions, turned to look at the source.  
“Something? That can mean a lot of things. Are we talking laser tag or mass murder?” The question, riddled with gentle humour that drew a chuckle from the rooms occupants, asked more things than its face value, came from the young genius. Queen Shuri of Wakanda had sat in the corner, tucked away as if trying to hide.  
“We need to change the hellhole we call earth.”  
“Ah yes, lets find the answer world poverty while we’re at it too.”  
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
Nostalgia in the form of midnight cups of crappy tea and cold noses crept like ivy vines into the minds of those who stood in the communal kitchen. The icy floor sat beneath their feet, hitting the occupants in waves of chills, and the distant lights outside the glass doors wriggled its way into the minds of those who stood, all in their varying degrees of annoyance and intrigue. The formality of the meeting room had long slipped away, leading the occupants into the cold kitchen.  
An invisible dust of disuse had settled over the kitchen, having clearly not been touched in year. In fact, most areas of personal quarters held the chilly silence of disuse, left to rot away without their owners to bring sparkles of life to the white painted corners. Each room still held the emotional scar of its last owner, every picture or book left before its mass abandonment.   
It gave of the false sense of cold, frozen in time and temperature.   
Liora stood in the room, leaning against the marble counter top, clutching a yellow mug of weak tea (cat piss coloured). She had removed her boots once the hands of the clock had passed 12, now standing on the floor in odd socks. Her spotty left foot rested against her knee, her right foot baring a shitty duck pun, taking the majority of her weight. The previous occupants of the meeting stood around her. Some bleary eyed, some staring ahead, emotionless. Many like her had removed the formal items of dress they wore. Jakcets and shoes lay across the kitchen, thrown without dignity or grace.  
The whole situation was comical in a totally humourless way. Every face held the evident scars of loss, of losing loved ones and hope. Eyes told stories of nights spent crying and struggling to breath as every emotion ran to the surface, each one battling for dominance in the hectic rush of mental crashes. Those who once laughed carelessly, who made jokes at the expense of siblings and best friends now renounced freely spent humour. People who once would have no common ground, who’d ever never uttered more than a ‘I’m sorry’ to them in passing in a busy city, only to find themselves sitting in a forgotten kitchen, arguing over whether to try and change the world or not.  
“Are we all going to sit in sullen silence until the sun reappears?” The subtle hints of sarcasm and annoyance sat heavy in the tone of the former Russian assassin, exsapsperated by the lack of progress they’d made, all equally confused and pissed off.  
“Well we could but I had a guilt-induced panic attack planned for 2am and alcohol induced vomiting planned for 3.” Starks dark humour fell against the thickly planted wall of silence, hidden behind the shadows around him.  
“Banners little child must be expected back home soon! It is way passed her bedtime!” Thors booming voice shattered the wall, creating the mass migration of people’s heads towards the 4-foot 11 girl stood against the kitchen.  
“It doesn’t really matter, I can go whenever,” she mumbled into the now cold tea, trying to hide the blush that crept into her face.  
“But your parents- “Thor tried to ask before being cut up.  
“I haven’t got any, Mr Odinson, so as I said, please do not me stop or hinder this convocation.”  
“Bumblebee? What do you mean?” Tony Stark had removed himself from the shadow he had been hiding in, making a beeline for the poster paint red girl and the Asgardian God.  
“טוב לעזאזל.” Liora swore underneath her breath.  
“I’d rather not.” Liora looked up in shock to see the redhaired Russian looking at her, her mouth curved in to a humoured smirk.   
“Didn’t know you spoke Hebrew, Natasha.”  
“Well there’s an awful lot you don’t know about me.” The Black Widow turned to the young Israeli, ripping her eyes aware from the man who had flared up her anger. “What do mean, קצת?”  
“I don’t have any parents, they’re dead, but I swear it doesn’t matter. ואל תקרא לי מואר.” Her curls fell around her face as she bowed her head down, determined not to make eye contact with the formidable woman.   
“How can it not matter, you must only be 13?” An indistinguishable tone rang clear in her voice, evident yet unknown. It sounded like sweetness and concern, hidden behind layers of heavy set disguise and years of emotionless lies.  
“I’m 16, but I promise you, I am fine. Anyhow, we need to address the matter at hand.” She had regained her composure, raising her head and looking straight on at the participants of the conversation.   
“I agree.” Tony Stark took centre stage, evidently his most comfortable position. “It is my choice in conversation after all.”  
“Stark, it’s always your choice on conversation.” An addition from the woman who might just cause Liora to pass out.  
“Lovely Natashalie. Anyway.” Stark coughed, before bringing his glass to his lips and gently swilling the amber coloured fire which sat in his glass. “Everything has fallen apart.”  
The room at large shuffled and murmured. Lips moved softly, each pairs owner trying to convey each toxically mixed emotion which had bubbled and resurfaced from the depth of their emotional baggage. Each person felt the similar sense of dread dredge itself up, each one felt a unique pang of loss hit them like a sucker punch.  
“Stark…”  
“No, Nat, we can’t just sit and let this blow over. We fucking caused it and we need to change it. For over a year we’ve let others unpick our goddamn messes and now we have to do something. Yes, we hurt, yes, we lost half our loved ones but fuck it, so did they! I lost my kid! But it wasn’t to the purple grape, it was from our mistakes. Yeah, we hurt, and we suffered, so now we help.”   
An empty breath hung in the air. Everyone knew what had happened to Tony, but no one dared utter the syllables about it. And now he screamed it to the room, emotion rolling off every word, pained expressions written like poetry across his tired face. A lonesome tear fell, rolling down the craggy surface of his face, before quickly being lost to the wind of a strong hand.  
“Mr Stark, sir, you’re right, but how do you want to do this?”


	4. The Good, The Bad and The Ok, I guess?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter contains slight mentions of a form of self harm in the first two sections. I have clearly marked those out, and I have written when they end so if you wish to skip past them, you can.

Anthony Stark hated breathing. The feeling of cool air rushing into his lungs and taking the burn of bottled emotions away. The bitter sting that he felt around his heart healed when pushed oxygen in and out. He held his breath every day, wishing that he wasn’t addicted to the ache of holding on, wishing that the light-headedness didn’t feel so good, praying that maybe, just maybe, he won’t have draw a breath again. 

It became his way of coping; holding onto a breath and not letting it go, swearing that endorphins rushed around his head. The new drug of choice for the billionaire. Because each breath he took reminded him so bitterly of the last ones he saw on Titan. His heart ached, and not just because of the permanent scars in his chest, but because love so bitterly stolen from you hurts more. The burn in his lungs created fire, and he begged for it, just so he felt something other than guilt.

He was woozy on false hope that morning, bathing in the sweet delights of dreamless sleep. Honey coated memories and ideals of a life of love, sugar oozing all around the dreams. He smiled that morning, and not just a fake “Oh Lord there are cameras” smile, but a proper “I’m gonna give you slight wrinkles smile.” To him that morning, all was fine in the world. Love still sat at the top of the world, not the arrogant shadow of death. 

But, as always, the building blocks of false hope fell around him, unstable in their construction.  
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
Liora cried that night. She never cried.

Angry tears ran down her face in a stream of life time bottled up memories, resurfacing like chronic pain. Bitter tears ran out of sparklingly hazel eyes. She cried for her sister, the only person who meant anything to her. She cried for injustice, and she cried for hope. Hope so nastily washed away with growing up. 

Her mind fruitlessly tried to grab on to sense, throwing its metaphorical limbs around, but simply failing to grasp onto any. Tears stung her eyes as she let the barricades of decades of emotional suppression be taken down by anguished cries.

It was now she realised that crying wasn’t like what the movies had shown her. There was no beauty to fighting for breath, or how her pillow was soaked with tears and stained with dark eye makeup. Tears matted her curls and her chest heaved with heavy breaths as she could not stop the long-needed break down of sense.   
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
(END OF FIRST TWO SECTIONS, ALL CLEAR FROM HERE!)

“Hi, what would you like to order today?” False sweetness sat on top of Liora’s voice, carefully masking the deep-rooted boredom that made her want to throw the skinny caramel macchiato at her customer just for a little bite of excitement in her day. In truth, she was exhausted, fighting the urge to close her eyes for just two minutes. The night at the compound had dragged on, and after many, many arguments they had decided to leave it where it was. It wasn’t as if at, 2:37am when she left the compound and at 3:01am when she arrived home after hauling a cab before anyone could offer her a lift, she went straight to sleep. She had broken down.

The walls of brick she had spent years crafting, believing naively that they were unbreakable, had come down. Thoughts and memories gushed out like water from a burst pipe, drowning her in the fears she so desperately buried. It crashed against her like waves, constantly coming with force, each one brining new destruction. The meeting had caused the wounds she never knew had left scars to be ripped open with an inhumane amount of force. 

The unease of standing in a room full of superheroes had unsettled her to the bone, left in a shape of mind she didn’t know existed. And after years of being numb to the tragedy in her past, it had been too much, Liora knew her brain couldn’t handle being reminded of the events that had ruined her life. They had ripped away the bandage over her eyes last night, leaving them stung on pain with the gas that surrounded the memories. It broke her, thrusting the poisoned knife of suppressed grief into her heart and letting her bleed rotten blood out of the old wound, left untreated by time.

She hated how the smell of burnt coffee had wedged itself permanently up her nose, causing waves of nausea to fill her tired brain. She stood behind the counter of “The Fourth Cup” coffee shop, serving the wildly concocted mix of preppy teenagers, hipster and their hemp milk, white mums and skinny lattes, and Stark Industries employees. Each one came in, distracted by the prospect of coffee, while she stood there questioning what was wrong with Americans and their coffee. 

“Honey, you look dead on feet!” The warm Texas accent of Diane, the shift manager, filled the quite café. She smiled at the teenager, who really did look dead on her feet, her kind blue eyes filled with sympathy.

“Well, given the choice, I’d opt for a nice warm spot in the ground rather than a walk home in this weather!” Rain had begun to lash down in the evening sky, signalling the change in seasons. The light pitter-patter could be heard, but the earthy smell that clashed with the strong smell of coffee beans whenever somebody passed through the door was the main indicator of the downpour happening in the town. Liora’s shift was coming to an end (only 34 minutes until she could clock off) after 7 hours of brain shattering hell pouring coffee. She had spent the day counting down the seconds until she could go home and cocoon herself in blankets and sleep. Having flicked between utter boredom and restlessness, and moments of complete distraction, she had ended up spilling coffee all over her white shirt and dropping a gallon of milk. 

The bell above the heavy oak door rang a sharp rang as somebody pushed it open, sheltering themselves from the whipping of the rain drops. 

“Hi, we will be closing in around 20 minutes, just for your information. This means you will have to leave!” Liora put on her happy-go-Larry voice as she spoke to the still hooded customer. She was desperate to grab the last slice of chocolate cake from the counter (Diane had a “no waste” policy) and go home, so she was silently praying the customer would be taking away.

“It won’t matter, I’m taking away.” 

Natasha Romanoff stood in front of the old counter, red hair dripping with water, staring up at the menu above Liora’s head. 

“Coolio. What would you like today?” Liora was stuck somewhere between feeling shock and embarrassment and just plain tired. It was hard to believe the infamous assassin she had seen last night arguing with Tony Stark, was stood in front of her, choosing between a caramel latte or a mocha. It was crazy enough to be stood in a Stark kitchen, the night before, surrounding by some of the most well-known people in the world but to see The Black Widow for a second time sent her brain into shock. She had never expected to see Tony Stark again, after that night, when she embarrassed herself by jabbering on in front of the billionaire. She thought that would forever be her dance with fame, a memory to hold onto forever. Seeing Dr Banner praise her work was surreal, and simply working with him was something she questioned every day, pinching herself to check it was real. But now, she had met them, the avengers were no longer just a name to her, they were faces and they were personalities. She had heard them speak the syllables of her name. 

“I would like an Americano please.” Her voice spoke without tone, her eyes forever moving between the menu and the rest of the room. It was unnerving.

“Of course. Would you like me to leave room for some milk in there, ma’am?” Her voice shone sickly sweet. She felt her stomach knot as the Black Widow’s steely gaze met hers, her mind failing to comprehend the situation, questioning whether she made the evening before up in her mind, questioning whether Natasha remembers her at all.

“No thank you.”

“Would you like anything else at all?”

“A slice of your not-actually-chocolate chocolate cake too בבקשה, באמבל בי.” She asked, winking at the girl as she turned around and sat in the sofa in the corner of the café. The once silence café filled with noise as a slightly pissed off about her chocolate cake Liora began to make her last coffee of the day. Screeching and whistling, the expresso machine created an ungodly noise. Diane had left minutes before the last customer, instructing Liora to lock up. It was now that Liora noticed she had left her umbrella behind, and Liora suddenly felt unbelievably bad for the women as she knew she had left it for her to use.

She handed to coffee and her cake to Miss Romanoff, watching her leave before beginning the familiar dance of tidying away and locking up. She knew every move to the dance, so she completed it with surprising ease. Her muscle knew every step, and her brain had been engraved with timings. Her heart soared as the sequence was completed, meaning she could go home.

Liora immediately regretted not using the kindly left umbrella.

Her sister had once told her that rain occurred when God was sad and her cried. 

He must be really fucking pissed off currently then, she bitterly thought as she waded through the water in the brightly lit town, rain bouncing off her head. She hated this job. She hated how the last bus went at 6 and her shift finished at 7, meaning she had a 2 mile walk to her flat just outside the centre of the town. She hated how her cloths stank of coffee, and how her hand became red raw from the constant cleaning of mugs. Employees from Stark Industries would come in (as it was the only coffee shop for miles) and recognise her faintly as the Israeli Lab Intern, suddenly high on arrogance caused by realising they were higher on the food chain than her.

A car raced past Liora as she trudged along the sea of rain water falling at her feet, causing the standing water to fly up and hit her, causing her to be hit by the freezing cold muddy water. She gasped in shock as it hit her, knocking the wind out of her. The car came to be screeching stop a couple of metres in front of her. 

“ЗаБудь, ты будешь мокрой.”   
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
The car was a haven from the bitter autumns evening outside. With its heaters on full blast, and the high-tech system, it was like sitting in a fire, warming you up unbelievable quickly. Liora sat there with a thousand and one questions. She sat, dripping wet, in the expensive car, next to a world-famous assassin with the most beautiful eyes. 

For the second time in 24 hours, Liora Adelman sat with makeup beginning to slip down her face and her dark curls matted against her skin, meaning you could see the several earrings littered up her ear whenever they passed a lamppost or met a set of headlights glaring at them from across the roads that had been plunged into darkness. She’d lost one of the gold hoops she’d wore in the bottom piercing in her lobe, and her shirt now had a Texas shaped coffee stain across her chest, as well as a ladder in her tights that she had missed in her sleep deprived brain that morning. 

She was a mess.

“Have that cake, I know you were looking forward to it,” Natasha told her “I know you were looking forward to that.” Liora stared at her, dumbfounded to how the hell she knew she wanted the cake earlier. 

“How di- “ 

“The same way I knew you spoke Russian. I watched you.” Natasha told her, before turning her focus back to the road.

“How on earth did you know I spoke Russian? I can vaguely comprehend the cake but…” she trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the warm air between them.

“Your tongue sits at the bottom of your mouth when you speak. Now a better question, why do you speak Russian?” She raised her eyebrow.

“My fathers family were Russian Jews, his first language was Russian, and he spoke it at home, rather than Hebrew or English. Mine and my sister first language.”

“You don’t speak fondly of your father,” she mused, curiously enthralled by the voice of the girl.

“You wouldn’t either if you knew him.” Liora almost spat out, her memories of him still far too raw from the night before.

A silence was formed around the two wet figures in the car, sitting comfortably between them as it drank up the noise of the radio playing softly and the spray of passing vehicles in the rain. Natasha hummed the familiar song on the radio. Lights became blurred as they raced past them, landmarks and signs became forgotten faces from the speed. Liora didn’t question how Natasha knew the way to her house, or why on earth she had picked her up from the grasps of the cold and wet autumn evening. 

“I hear that you’re working on something with Bruce.” 

“Yes, I am helping Doctor Banner with his work,” Liora turned to face the redheaded driver, having suddenly been plunged into dangerous territory. Her hazel eyes swam with a fear, a fear derived from the prospect of lying. Lying to an assassin. Paranoia swarmed her mind, clouding the judgement needed to asses a situation that was like running through a mine field at break neck speed. Cold breath exited her mouth, coated with the taste of the all too familiar sensation of preparing to lie through her teeth.

“You must be pretty smart then, working with him.” Liora sat at the edge of her seat, grasping and analysing every letter that she spoke, trying to make her next move on the human chess board.

“I am no where near as smart as Doctor Banner, I simply assist him when needed. I am not always there, I work at the café in town too. I am an intern, not an employee.” Liora threw in unneeded information, trying to divert her attention away from the subject of her work. 

 

“You work very hard from what I hear. You’re always one of the last to leave, and I’ve seen your name on a large number of the files.”

“Well, your elbow is close, yet you can’t bite it, so I put in every ounce of time I have into my work. That saying loses a bit in translation, doesn’t it?” She added after going over 

“Yes, but I get what you mean. It’s hard, so you work like a horse to get better,” Liora nods in agreement, “You’re very young, and very good at what you do.”

“Given the option, I’d much rather be a normal teenager, but we don’t get what we want, do we?” Silence once again fell like dust in the car, settling between the two of them. A cheesy jingle played on the radio, and the wipers had created their own beat against the windscreen, moving in time with the down pour of rain outside. Liora gazed out the droplet covered window, watching the trees and houses become a cinematic blur, created for her entertainment.

“My house was back there,” Liora turned to look at Natasha driving, to find her solely focused on the road, not turning to meet her gaze.

“You’re not going back there.”

“What?” Liora didn’t raise her voice, but every word she spoke glided off her tongue, wrapped in confusion and a growing sense of fear.

“Thor and Wong have information on the infinity stones, they asked me to fetch you. Don’t look so shocked honey, I know what you’re working on.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Tony is the only person who doesn’t know. Now, you might need to take of that hideously bright coat of yours, you stand out like a sore thumb.” Natasha turned to face her. “He’s right, you know. Шмель. Now buckle up, we’re running late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for getting this far, and I apologise for my inconsistent updating!   
> Please comment what you think and tell me about any mistakes!  
> Also check out my tumblr - also now called its all rather strange  
> TRANSLATIONS  
> ЗаБудь, ты будешь мокрой.= literally translates as "forget it, you'll get wet"   
> .Шмель. = Bumble Bee  
> בבקשה דבורה = Please, Bumblebee

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo! I'm Molls and welcome to a little piece of my weird ass brain! I tagged this in humour and you're probably thinking "I've read soup cans that are funnier" and tbh you're not wrong. I am also Deaf, which means sometimes my written speech fluency isn't brilliant, sorry!  
> In later chapters, I will be writing characters who are struggling with mental health conditions, but i'll make sure to trigger warn every chapter before hand.  
> Also, please point out any errors, and especially point out any mary sues or plot wholes!   
> Please, Please, Please review and leave Kudos!  
> Also available on Fanfic.net  
> My Tumblr is "okbutinrealitywhy", which I will be using for updates and moodboards and stuff like that  
> Toodles!


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